


If This is a Rom-Com...

by cherishiskisa



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Piningjolras, wacky fun time at a law firm and art gallery etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishiskisa/pseuds/cherishiskisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...kill the director.<br/>Courfeyrac has started noticing that he’s drowsy at work and brings him extra coffee in the mornings. This helps a little, and Enjolras is certainly grateful for such a good friend, but he’s still falling asleep at his desk by midday.<br/>Which is why, on that particular Thursday, he isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating when he looks up and sees someone beautiful in the art gallery across the street.<br/>(aka, the one where Enjolras pines and turns into a bit of a pathetic stalker, and everybody teases him about it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If This is a Rom-Com...

Enjolras had started working at the firm a few weeks ago. It was nothing special; just another small business law firm that dealt with local cases.

He was hoping to work his way up in the district, maybe even end up as a respected attorney in the public courts, but this would do for now. He filed things and sorted through other things and had a generally dreary time at work, but at least he was getting paid twice minimum wage for it.

His posture was getting rather bad, though, from slouching over a computer all day. His flatmate and best friend since high school, Combeferre, who was studying for a PhD in practically everything, constantly chastised him for it, but still Enjolras did nothing to correct it. This resulted in the soreness of his back and neck, which in turn led to his inability to find a comfortable position to sleep in, which, in its own turn, led to him not being able to stay fully focused at work.

He has, however, managed to befriend some of his coworkers in the time that he isn’t falling asleep or running madly around the office, trying to find the right file in which to place a paper. There’s Courfeyrac, who refuses to put up with company dress code and pretends it’s Casual Friday every day, there’s Marius Pontmercy, who seems rather absent-minded but endearing, and there’s Bossuet—whose real name seems to be Laigle, or Lesgle, and Enjolras has no idea how to spell it—who has awful luck but good spirits. Enjolras has spent a good amount of time stuck at the water cooler with Courfeyrac, who has problems with shutting up and talks enough for the whole office, and learning all the gossip.

If he can make it, he goes out for drinks with them after work to the bar a few numbers down from the office, and meets the rest of their friends. Bossuet’s boyfriend Joly and their girlfriend Musichetta, Courfeyrac’s best friend, roommate, and lover Jean Prouvaire (they’re actually boyfriends, but they prefer ‘lover’ because Jean—who likes to be called Jehan—is so obsessed with the idea of love), Marius’s girlfriend Cosette, a couple of guys—Bahorel and Feuilly—who appear to just drink with them when they can. They’re a loud bunch, but they all seem to be very good people.

Enjolras doesn’t drink with them much. Mostly because he doesn’t drink quite the amounts that they’d like him to.

But if it’s a Friday night and he has no other option but to just wander the streets and be inexpressibly lonely, he’ll come along and have a soda or something as the rest of them get amusingly tipsy.

He doesn’t have much free time, though. If he does, he spends it sleeping. Or trying to.

Work is dull, but at least it pays and he’s made friends. Combeferre is constantly bothering him about him not being a social creature despite all of his desire to talk to people and change the world, and now he can prove him wrong.

Him going out with that whole group is, however, rare. Spending time with them is rather draining, and Enjolras is tired enough as it is.

Courfeyrac has started noticing that he’s drowsy at work and brings him extra coffee in the mornings. This helps a little, and Enjolras is certainly grateful for such a good friend, but he’s still falling asleep at his desk by midday.

Which is why, on that particular Wednesday, he isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating when he looks up and sees someone beautiful in the art gallery across the street.

He doesn’t know much about the art gallery. It has massive windows to match the ones that the law firm has, and Enjolras thinks they do a program with the nearest university where art students come and paint there and then have their work displayed. But he isn’t sure.

Which is why he’s lost when he looks up from his computer, looks across the street, and sees _him_.

Dark hair. Messy curls. Tucked into a knit beanie-thing. Enjolras can’t see the colour of his eyes from there, but he thinks they may be blue. He can certainly see the slope of his nose and the mocking little smile on his mouth—God, and he can see how soft his lips must be from all the way across the street—and the way his hands move animatedly as he talks. He’s standing in front of a painting that Enjolras can’t make the details of out too well, but the darkness of the canvas with the occasional splashes of colour are certainly appealing.

 _God,_ Enjolras wants him.

He’s talking to someone who has his back turned to the windows, but Enjolras assumes it’s a prospective buyer for the painting. The beautiful one is gesturing to parts of the canvas, posture open and inviting. Enjolras squints—and yes, he has paint streaked across his fingertips and hands. Enjolras thinks he can see a tattoo curling down along his neck and into his green shirt.

He watches the beautiful one laugh, and something inside of him _burns_ to hear what that sounds like in real life.

So Enjolras is just sitting there, mouth drying out as he watches this man moving and talking, shamelessly staring, when there is a light pressure on his shoulder. He jumps, face flushing red, and looks over—and it’s Courfeyrac.

“Hey, are you done with your coffee? I’m gonna go on another run during lunch break.”

Enjolras clears his throat and manages, “Yeah—okay, thanks.” He hands over his empty cup.

Courfeyrac takes it, eyes narrowed as he studies Enjolras. “You feeling alright?”

“Fine,” Enjolras says quickly. “Tired, as always, that’s all.”

“Get some sleep tonight,” Courfeyrac says softly and sends him a look that’s almost full of pity before turning away to go ask Marius the same question he asked Enjolras.

Once he’s away, Enjolras hurriedly turns around to stare at the windows of the art gallery.

His heart sinks. The beautiful young man is gone. He thinks he can see a shadow at the back of the room, near the reception desk, wearing too-tight jeans and raggedy sneakers and a loose green shirt, but isn’t sure. It may just be his imagination.

Enjolras lets out a sigh, reluctant to look away from the art gallery, but does, seeing as how he no longer has a reason to stare at it.

For the rest of the day, he is seized with an odd combination of melancholy and loneliness, a specific blend of the two that he hasn’t felt before. He is haunted by delicate shoulders and fluttering hands and an easy smirk.

He chastises himself for being ridiculous. He’s never seen this man before—he’ll never see him again. It’s time to forget.

Enjolras goes home, makes small talk with Combeferre, and slumps into bed.

It’s horribly uncomfortable. He has so much trouble falling asleep. He can’t tell if his eyes are still awake because if he closes them he’ll have to turn onto his side and that’ll hurt his back, or because if he closes them dark hair and soft skin and a mobile mouth will dance in his mind until he goes insane with _want_.

But he eventually sleeps. Thankfully, it’s dreamless.

He wakes up again and drags himself to work.

And he spends the day distracted from his files and phone calls, gazing wistfully across the street.

Of course, the beautiful young man doesn’t appear again. Where the painting hung the previous day now there is a blank space. Enjolras assumes he sold it and therefore had no reason to come back the next day.

This, strangely enough, makes Enjolras absolutely _miserable_ for the rest of the day.

He doesn’t understand that and he hates himself for it. For God’s sake, he saw this guy for a grand total of three minutes yesterday, having never seen him before in his entire life, and now he’s pining like a Jane Austen character living out the moors, alone.

Courfeyrac takes Enjolras out for lunch, and Enjolras is uncharacteristically reluctant to go.

When he figures out that he only didn’t want to go out because the beautiful young man might show up across the street while he was gone and if Enjolras was out at lunch he could miss him, he’s absolutely furious with himself.

He will _not_ be slave to this man, beautiful though he may be. He will _not_ give up time with his friends to waste away and stare out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse.

But, as he sits across a table from Courfeyrac at lunch, munching absently on a sandwich, an image of the beautiful young man smiling floats unbidden through Enjolras’ mind, and something warm stirs inside of him, and he can’t help but smile back.

Courfeyrac just raises an eyebrow. “Um, hello?”

Enjolras blinks, smile vanishing. He looks at Courfeyrac. “What?”

“Nothing. You just spent thirty seconds staring at that lady’s purse with an idiotic smile on your face. What’s up?”

Enjolras looks over at the purse. It’s green. It’s the same shade of green as the beautiful young man’s shirt.

He groans and shakes his head. “Nothing. I just—nothing.”

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” Courfeyrac asks sternly, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Got any plans for tonight?” It’s only a Thursday, but the friends seem to go out every night.

Enjolras considers this. He could lie and say he’s got things to do if he’s not in the mood to go out, but he really needs to get over this odd funk. “No.”

“Cool,” Courfeyrac grins. “You haven’t gone out with us in ages.”

“I know,” Enjolras nods, nibbling at his sandwich. “Sorry about that.”

“No, man, I get it, even Superman needs his sleep,” Courfeyrac says with an amiable smile, and Enjolras suddenly feels horrible for how bad of a friend he is.

“I’ll be there tonight.”

Courfeyrac reaches across the table to ruffle Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras yelps and jerks away, scowling at him as he lets down his hair from the neat way it was tied back so he can smooth it back down and fix it.

They finish lunch and, chatting happily, head back to the office.

And when Enjolras sits down at his desk and opens up the file he was working on, he happens to glance across the street.

He nearly falls out of his chair.

There _he_ is, a portfolio under one arm, a sheaf of papers with sketched lines on them in his other hand. His fingertips are stained with charcoal; he has a smear of it across his face.

He’s wearing a beanie today, too, but it’s a different colour and is set farther back on his head so more of his curls dance free.

He’s talking to a young woman, and a jealousy so fierce burns through Enjolras—no, it’s not even jealousy, it’s _envy_ —that it makes him gasp for air and clutch at his desk. The beautiful young man is smiling and laughing, head tilting to the side a little bit. He can’t stand still, battered sneakers from yesterday never staying in one place for long.

Enjolras doesn’t even realize, but he’s leaning his chin on one hand, staring wistfully at him like he really is a lovestruck teenager.

Enjolras also doesn’t realize that Courfeyrac, in turn, is watching him, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Enjolras keeps on watching the beautiful young man move.

And he allows his mind to wander; he pictures that megawatt smile directed at him, one of those long hands extending out to meet Enjolras’, soft lips softly saying a soft name, eyes of a colour Enjolras still can’t place looking serenely up at him.

He wonders about what height the beautiful young man would be in relation to him. He wonders how soft his skin really is. He wonders what his body is like under that hoodie he’s wearing (why is he wearing a shirt with a hood if he has a beanie on to protect his hair already?).

He allows his gaze to travel down and appreciate the young man’s indecently tight jeans with scrapes on the knees—Enjolras idly wonders how he got those, and flushes bright red—and the way they curve around his slim body—he must do some sort of elegant sport, like swimming, or boxing, or _fencing_ , Jesus—like he’s had them for years, because he’s an art student (probably) and therefore can’t really afford to be lavish with his wardrobe choices.

 _God_ , Enjolras wants to know everything about him.

The beautiful young man is still laughing and talking with the woman, and Enjolras is still ruining his eyesight by squinting at him and trying to figure out what’s printed on his hoodie.

And then, _fuck_ , his hand is tucking the sketches under his arm along with the portfolio and coming up to pull the beanie off his head.

Dark curls settle around his face, some falling into his eyes, others just bobbing back, tangled and merry, and Enjolras wants to run his hands through them and pull them back to bare his beautiful white throat and _bite_ and _claim_ and then soothe again, stroking those curls back from a sweaty forehead—or maybe just run his hands through, tuck them back behind his ears when they fall into his face as he bends over a desk, drawing, wake up with his face pressed into those curls—

Enjolras lets out a sigh that catches in his throat. Just watching this beautiful young man talking makes him feel like he’s drowning.

But then the young man says something to the woman. She nods. And then—they’re leaving. They’re turning away and walking to the back of the gallery to go out the back way—he’s gone.

Enjolras stares at the empty space where the beautiful young man had been. He mentally calls for him to come back.

He continues to stare for a few minutes until he realizes he’s being ridiculous and turns back to his work, feeling much better than he had been earlier in the day.

Courfeyrac has _no idea what’s going on_ , but he’s relieved, at least, to see the tension that had been wound in Enjolras’ shoulders vanish.

Enjolras continues glancing over to the art gallery every few minutes, just in case, but the beautiful young man doesn’t appear again for the rest of the day. So Enjolras packs up his things and goes with Courfeyrac to the bar just down the block.

There, surrounded by loud and friendly drunks, Enjolras decides that this is _ridiculous_ and he needs to get over this man that he’s never met. Feeling horribly daring, he orders himself some fruity drink that Jehan promises he’ll like, but tells the bartender to put in less alcohol than usual. He gets it, gulps down a little of it, absolutely hates it, but decides to persevere. He needs to forget about the art student across the street. He needs to forget about the dark curls, long fingers, bright smiles—for fuck’s sake, he probably has dimples if you look at him from up close—and _everything_.

Courfeyrac claps him on the back and says something like “welcome to the club, my friend” as Enjolras manages to swallow down the rest of his drink and looks around the bar, trying to find someone to use as a distraction. He knows that if he finds someone, and something happens between them, he will have used that poor person and that isn’t an idea that sits well with him, but continuing on as he has been seems like an even worse option.

But after looking in a full circle—or what feels like a full circle, anyway, because Enjolras is just starting to verge on tipsy, so it may have been more like an ellipse—around the bar, Enjolras determines that he is totally fucked.

Because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot find anyone who could possibly distract him from hazy memories of beauty seen at a distance.

He gives up after his second drink.

Courfeyrac seems disappointed that Enjolras is leaving so early, before things could get more exciting, but doesn’t hold him back. He knows Enjolras is usually too busy to stay long, anyway, so he’s glad that Enjolras stayed as much as he did.

Enjolras goes home, doesn’t say anything to Combeferre—he’s too angry with himself to focus his energy on being polite to his best friend—and goes straight to bed.

He falls face-first into a pillow and grumbles at himself before drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

Friday rolls around, and Enjolras spends a good portion of the day zoning out as he stares across the street, hoping for a glimpse he doesn’t get.

He decides to go out with Courfeyrac and the whole gang again that night.

Which is, to be fair, a pretty bad call.

Because Courfeyrac, apparently, has noticed him staring out the window instead of working.

“So Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says after his third beer. “When was the last time you were in a relationship? Want me to set you up with someone?”

Enjolras looks up at him over the rim of his (extremely watered-down) gin-and-tonic. “Um… no, thanks,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Why not?” Courfeyrac smirks. “Just not interested in dating at all, or have you got your eye set on someone already?”

Enjolras freezes. Surely Courfeyrac can’t know, it’s not like he can read minds. “I—”

“Someone that works at the art gallery across the street, maybe?”

Enjolras, to his chagrin, blushes scarlet. “What?” he says, trying to play it off. “Don’t be silly.”

“You’re the silly one,” Courfeyrac grins, throwing an easy arm around Jehan’s shoulders. “Folks, our Enjolras has got it bad for someone he’s never even talked to.”

Enjolras wants to die.

“What?” Jehan says, looking at Enjolras with interest. “ _Who_?”

“Don’t know his name,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “I went in to talk to him once, though.”

Enjolras, despite his mortification, sits up straight at that. “You—you did?”

Courfeyrac laughs and toasts him before taking another swig of his beer. “I’m messing with you, Enjolras, but at least now we have confirmation that you’ve got it bad.”

Enjolras’ eyes go wide in betrayal and shock and he hides behind his gin-and-tonic again.

“Who is it?” Jehan coaxes, reaching out to tug at Enjolras’ sleeve. He’s so sweet that Enjolras is always tempted to tell him _everything_ , but his resolve is strong tonight, for some reason.

“No one,” he mumbles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He puts his chin in his hands and he _pines_ ,” Courfeyrac tells Jehan gleefully. “It’s adorable. Poor thing.”

“He does not!” Jehan gasps, big blue eyes full of delight. “Oh, _Enjolras_ —”

“Leave me alone,” Enjolras snaps, slouching over his drunk. “I said it’s nothing, and it doesn’t matter.”

“He’s in love,” Jehan sighs blissfully and goes over to kiss him on the cheek, ignoring his pout or the fact that he’s shooting daggers at everyone. “Oh, Enjolras.”

“I’m not…” Enjolras gives up. “It doesn’t matter, anyway, nothing will happen.”

“Have you seen him?” Jehan asks Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Kind of. I saw Enjolras staring at him and I saw his vague shape. He’s cute.”

Enjolras’ eyes flash at that, and Courfeyrac laughs.

“Be easy, Enjolras, I stake no claims on your man.”

Enjolras huffs, disgusted with his friends, and sips his drink. “He’s not _my man_.”

“But you want him to be,” Jehan shrugs. “Why don’t you go across the street and talk to him?”

Enjolras’ eyes go wide and he shakes his head. For all his fantasies, the prospect of actually talking to the beautiful young man terrifies him.

“I’ll do it for you,” Courfeyrac offers, but before he’s even finished his sentence, Enjolras has already said an emphatic “No.”

Courfeyrac shrugs and Jehan returns to his side. “Then I won’t help you, fine. As long as you quit moping and actually get your work done and I don’t have to keep making excuses for you.”

Enjolras is sure Courfeyrac is exaggerating, seeing as how this has been going on for a grand total of three days.

This then proceeds to go on for three more weeks.

Courfeyrac will occasionally come up to Enjolras at work and smack the back of his head and say something teasing about the guy across the street, and Enjolras will turn red and scowl and ignore him, but will still stare wistfully whenever he can. The beautiful young man doesn’t come every day, but when he does, Enjolras pays attention.

One day, he even skips his lunch with Courfeyrac to go across the street to the art gallery, hoping he’ll show up. He’s terrified. It feels like his whole body is sweating. He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s actually there. One smile from the beautiful young man and Enjolras thinks he might die.

Enjolras smiles politely at the receptionist and then awkwardly meanders around the gallery. None of the paintings catch his eye and, of course, the beautiful young man doesn’t show up.

A part of Enjolras is relieved.

A much more major part of Enjolras is _vastly_ disappointed and frustrated.

And then, after that unsuccessful attempt, he sees the young man in the window once and something inside of him _leaps_ and he practically runs downstairs—ignoring Courfeyrac and Marius’s queries as to what the hell he thinks he’s doing—but by the time he gets to the gallery, the young man is gone.

Enjolras gives up on the prospect of ever meeting him, but continues to stare at the gallery windows.

This goes on for another month or so. Enjolras’ pining doesn’t get any better. He only sees the young man a few more times, but continues to be miserable about the whole affair.

This leads to Courfeyrac and Marius and even Bossuet dragging him along to more and more drinking nights, at which he still refuses to drink more than half a beer a night.

He’s the designated driver more often than not, too, and he’s alright with that. It helps him take his mind off things.

His posture continues to be bad.

Enjolras is still seized with inexpressible and inexplicable loneliness at small hours of the night, though. He wakes up craving someone— _dark hair light eyes long hands soft smiles_ —and unable to fall back asleep, knowing there won’t be a way he could do that unless there was a warm body asleep next to his own.

He’s miserable at work, he’s miserable at home, he’s miserable at the bar, and it’s all the fault of that _stupid_ art student from across the street.

So this Friday night isn’t any different. He’s slouched at the very centre of the bar as his friends chatter around him, each in various stages of drunkenness. People try to talk to him, but he’s taken to speaking in monosyllabic words and simple sentences lately, and they correctly interpret that as him not wanting to talk to them and leave him alone.

And then someone starts nudging him.

Enjolras frowns into his (extremely watered-down) rum-and-Coke. “What?”

It’s Courfeyrac. He’s drunk. “Look over there.”

Enjolras can’t even tell what direction he’s pointing in. “What? Why? No. You’re drunk.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac insists, “look over there.” The broad smile on his face fills Enjolras with a slight sense of dread.

“Why?”

“ _Just do it_.”

Jehan is clutching Courfeyrac’s arm and is smiling just as wide as his lover. “Really, Enjolras, do,” he says eagerly and Enjolras’ eyebrows knit.

“Fine.”

He looks over to where Courfeyrac is unsteadily pointing and his heart stops.

His circulatory system freezes.

He can’t remember how to breathe.

It’s…

It’s _him_.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s real. He’s sitting at a corner table, a few pieces of paper spread out in front of him. His long legs are lazily stretched out under the table and one of his hands is splayed flat to hold down a piece of the paper as the other sketches.

Fuck.

“That’s him, right?” Courfeyrac says, grin widening.

All Enjolras can do is nod as their friends grow quiet around him.

“Go talk to him!” Jehan whispers, giving Enjolras a nudge. Enjolras is frozen, watching the way the beautiful young man holds his pencil, fingers all bent into odd positions.

“Enjolras, for God’s sake,” Courfeyrac says sternly, “go talk to him.”

Someone pries the glass out of Enjolras’ hands and nudges him off of his bar stool. The circle of friends turns into a bit of a blob, and then into a wall—all behind Enjolras, slowly carrying him forward to the young man’s general direction.

“Don’t be shy!” Jehan smiles.

Courfeyrac claps him on the back. There’s quite a lot of laughter coming from the mass of friends, along with murmurs of encouragement. “Go get ‘im, tiger!” Courfeyrac finally says, loud enough that—

—it makes the beautiful young man look up.

Locking eyes directly with Enjolras.

Enjolras freezes again. His own eyes are huge and lost and he’s _sure_ he’s blushing, but—oh, God, that’s a smile on the young man’s face—

_His eyes are blue._

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. He takes a tiny, shaking step forward. He’s lost, God, he’s lost.

The young man tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “Designated driver, huh?” he comments, and Enjolras doesn’t remember how to breathe, because his voice is _everything_ Enjolras had ever imagined it to be and so much more.

“Yeah,” he finally manages to rasp out. “Something like that.” He has no idea what expression is on his face, and he can only hope he isn’t staring too much. He glances back to see what his friends are up to, but they’re all turned away, laughing quietly amongst themselves. He turns back to the young man and gulps, knowing he doesn’t even have a wingman to help him.

The young man laughs, softly. “Mmhmm, I’ve been there.” He then looks down, away from Enjolras, and picks up his pencil again, returning to his drawing.

 _Fuck_.

Enjolras starts to think he’s screwed everything up, because this is a clear indication that the beautiful young man—who is so much more beautiful in person, _Jesus_ —doesn’t want to talk to him. He’s done everything wrong. He’s been pining after this boy for almost two months and the first time they talk will probably be the only time.

But then—there’s movement. Under the table, one of the young man’s long legs is pushing at the chair opposite him, effectively sliding it out from under the table so that… Enjolras can sit in it.

When Enjolras doesn’t react, the young man glances away from his sketching to cock an eyebrow up at him. Enjolras hastily realizes everything and sits down.

There’s a muted wolf-whistle from the bar, and Enjolras’ face burns, but he ignores it.

“I’m Grantaire,” the young man says.

“Enjolras,” he somehow manages to reply.

The hand that isn’t holding a pencil—the right one—extends out, and Enjolras has to take a moment to gather his thoughts because he’s about to touch this boy, after pining for two months. He gets it together in time to clasp hands with him.

Grantaire is warm and his hands are dry and when he pulls away, Enjolras is sure there are light smears of charcoal on his own palm, now.

There is a small smile playing across Grantaire’s mobile mouth.

Enjolras stares at him in silence for a few moments, unable to believe that this is _actually happening_ , that this perfect being is actually _real_ , when he suddenly realizes he’s being horribly rude by not saying anything, and that conversations have to be actually started, as opposed to waited for, and he’s always been relatively good with people, so he manages to go out of lovestruck mode into normal-Enjolras mode.

“So… what are you drawing?”

There is a pause, and then Grantaire looks up.

The smile that’s spread across his beautiful face makes everything inside of Enjolras hurt.

And as Grantaire’s blue, blue eyes light up as he answers, foot lightly rubbing across Enjolras’ under the table, he thinks that all of this pining has really been overwhelmingly worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> yes yes sweet sweet piningjolras  
> anyway i live at grabtaire.tumblr.com and i love feedback so please let me know what you thought of this story someway or other!!  
> title taken from the wombats song kill the director xoxo


End file.
